I’m just a girl, standing in front of a boy who is holding a Starbucks latte in one hand and a walkie-talkie in the other.
He’s as handsome in person as his profile pic, with close-cropped black hair and piercing dark eyes. He’s wearing a camo-on-camo workshirt and pants. Obviously spends a lot of time in the gym. Sick scar on his right cheek.
Mountain bike crash? Sword fight, maybe? It doesn’t matter. So hot.
“Hi, you must be Joe!” I say brightly.
“Hi Barbie.”
“Wow, you really are a doll,” I say cheekily.
“I prefer action figure,” he says.
I make a mental eyeroll: this is going well.
“I love your outfit — it’s kind of like an Army-guy-slash-Canadian-tuxedo kinda thing. I used to have a hot pink camo jumpsuit.” I’m on a roll and I can’t stop myself. “It was really useful for blending in at Victoria’s Secret.”
I look at Joe and he is staring at me blankly. For having 19 articulated joints, this guy is a real stiff.
“So tell me, Joe, what does the G.I. stand for?” In my mind, I’d already formed two possibilities: Gluten Intolerant and Gastro Intestinal, but I decide to keep those to myself.
“Most people think it stands for government issue, but it’s actually a family name: George Irving.”
Just then, I hear radio static as the walkie-talkie crackles to life. A male voice drones unintelligibly on the other end. Joe picks it up. “Copy that, Roger.” More unintelligible droning. Roger sounds like he’s sitting inside a can of Maxwell House. “Affirmative. Whiskey, tango, foxtrot. On it,” Joe says. “Over and out.”
“Wouldn’t it be easier to just carry an iPhone?” I ask.
“Negatory. It’s part of the job,” he answers.
“So, tell me about that,” I say. “What exactly do you do?”
He sets down his paper cup and looks off into the distance, inhaling deeply. “I’m part of a special mission force. Basically, our job is to defend human freedom against a ruthless terrorist organization called COBRA.”
“OMG! Do you love it?” I ask.
“No, I hate it. I have so much anxiety. Like, do you have any idea how much pressure it is to be a universal archetype for good?” he says.
“You’re kidding, right?” I say. “Try being the global symbol of fun, fashion and imagination while simultaneously representing the objectification of women under the relentless political, social and economic oppression of the patriarchy. I mean, I’m more than plastic, nylon acetate blond hair, big boobs and a spray tan. Hell, I’ve been an astronaut, UNICEF ambassador, nuclear physicist—”
Just then, a sparkly pink Corvette convertible pulls up in front of the terrace.
“Hi Barbie!”
“Hi Ken!”
“Who’s that?” Joe asks, arching an eyebrow.
“Oh, that’s my GBF. Sorry, Joe, I gotta run. We have a date at the Egyptian. We’re watching Kinky Boots. In kinky boots.”
“I brought our boots!” Ken calls out cheerily, holding up two pairs of red latex, thigh-high platforms.
I jump into the passenger seat. I look back at G.I. Joe sitting at the table, staring at his coffee cup. Ken flashes me a dazzling smile and hits the gas.
I’m just a girl sitting next to a boy asking him to love her. Now I know. And knowing is half the battle.